


And Everything Nice

by BiteMeTechie (The_Injustice_Trinity)



Category: Batman (Movies 1989-1997)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Character Development, Femme Girls Are Dynamite, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Shippy if you Squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Injustice_Trinity/pseuds/BiteMeTechie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Batman Forever] They weren't always Two-Face's henchgirls. Presenting the first meeting of those two luscious ladies of leather and lace, Sugar and Spice. It promises to be an...explosive friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Everything Nice

**Author's Note:**

> _Woo! Another fic from the current Free For All! Go me._
> 
> _This story was written for the Free For All Fic For All--or FFAFFA for short--over on the[Ask the Squishykins tumblr](http://askthesquishykins.tumblr.com), wherein Twinings and I offer ourselves up to fill as many fic prompts as humanly possible with stories ranging in length from 100 to 16,000 words. The current round runs until May 1st, 2014, so if you'd like a fic written to your custom specifications, please don't hesitate to drop by and ask for it! :)_
> 
> _Prompt: "Sugar and Spice from the otherwise execrable Film Which Shall Not Be Named. Because if anyone can make them be more than cardboard cutout stereotypical fantasies, it's you." (A vote of confidence I'm not sure **I** deserve, but nice either way.)_
> 
> _Notes: As the characters in the film were never given real names, nor in any of the tie-in merchandise, I’ve taken the liberty of doing so myself. Huzzah. Also, I've kind of always loved these two and, after this, will find it very difficult not to write them more._

The pay was lousy, but working behind the make-up counter at a rundown department store on the sleazy side of Gotham had its perks. Candi St. Clair could sashay through the door at nine on the dot or noon if she wanted and nobody batted an eye. Her lunch breaks could be five minutes or an hour and a half and her pay stayed the same. Best of all, she could wear whatever she wanted and nobody cared that she sampled the make-up and gave herself a makeover at least once per shift.  
  
At ten o’clock on a Tuesday, Candi arrived for work and took her customary position on her stool behind the counter. By ten thirty, her nails were a pearly pink. Fifteen minutes later, they’d been striped with white to create a French manicure. At eleven, she actually had a customer—middle-aged lady, smelled like sour perfume, crooked lipliner—whom she delighted in giving a beauty treatment with some of the new Janus Glow! Products. She broke for lunch at eleven thirty, didn’t come back until two, and then stripped off the French manicure to replace it with six coats of silver sparkles.  
  
And at two thirty, with her nails still wet, she got robbed.  
  
“Your lipstick’s terrible,” she said, elbows on the glass counter top and her chin in her hands.  
  
The woman stuffing cash from the register into a burlap sack gave her a glare. At least, Candi thought it was a glare. It was hard to tell through all the black eyeliner that made her look like a raccoon. “Funny, I don’t remember asking you, Barbie,” she snarled. “I recommend you shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”  
  
“Leather jacket’s a little three seasons ago, too.” Candi continued, unfazed. “And your hair…do you listen to The Cure?”  
  
That gave the thief pause, if only a brief one. The remark bothered her enough that she self-consciously brushed some of her hair out of her eyes. “You’re pretty chatty for somebody who’s getting burgled.”  
  
“We’re insured. You’re my third robbery this month.” Her boredom evident, Candi picked up one of the small gift bags behind the counter and held it out. “Samples?”  
  
She stopped grabbing handfuls of money just long enough to snatch the bag, peek inside and purse her lips. Then she finished stuffing the cash in her sack, slammed the register shut and cocked her hip to one side. “Don’t get ideas about this whole not slitting your throat thing meaning I like you or anything. You’re perky. I _hate_ perky.”  
  
Then she was gone, and Candi was calling the cops with a sob story about some huge guy with a baseball bat without a single mention of a busty, motorcycle jacket wearing goth girl in platform boots. The police were very sympathetic—she had that effect on men—but her bosses weren’t. The store’s guidelines were very lax, but apparently not nonexistent, and three robberies of the same clerk in one month were too many to ignore. Candi found herself “downsized” three days later, with just one last shift to cover.  
  
She spent the bulk of it painting zebra stripes on her nails, one last hooray before she was going to be forced to enter the glamorous world of fry cookery.  
  
As Candi was putting the final touches on her left pinky, Leather Jacket sauntered up to the counter, casual as you please.  
  
“Not here to rob me again, are you?” Candi asked without looking up. “You might as well, they’re firing me anyway.”  
  
“Nah, I never hit the same place twice in one week. It’s tacky.” She leaned against the counter, the black talons that were her nails clacking on the glass. “You got any more of that plum lipstick? You know, like in the samples?”  
  
Candi waved a hand in the direction of the stock behind her, giving silent, but explicit, permission to take whatever she wanted.  
  
“Cool.” She pulled herself up and over the counter to rifle through the lipsticks. “So fired, huh?”  
  
“Yep.” Candi blew on her nails and shook them out.  
  
“You wanna blow this popsicle stand?”  
  
“What,” Candi looked up finally and fixed her new acquaintance with a puzzled look, “like…leave together?”  
  
“Nah, like blow it up.”  
  
She thought about that, then shrugged. “Sure, I’m not doing anything. If you’ve got the dynamite, I’ve got the lighter. Should probably rob it first, though.”  
  
“Good idea.” The other woman stuffed half a dozen lipsticks in her jacket pockets. “I’m Ginger.”  
  
“Candi.”  
  
“Seriously?” Ginger rolled her eyes and hopped back over the counter. “You’re a sugar and I’m a spice? That is _too_ rich.”


End file.
